07 The Eagle In the Sand

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘Second Illyrian!’ Macro’s voice bellowed out of the night. ‘Charge!’

  At once the air was split with the sound of trumpets and a great roar tore out of the auxiliaries’ throats as they rushed towards the camp.They raced through the nearest campfires thrusting their javelins at the men lying on the ground. Beyond them the rest of the camp began to stir to life, men struggling up from their sleep, blinking their eyes and then staring in surprise, and then terror, towards the Roman soldiers pouring out of the desert. Cato and his men ran in to join their comrades and stabbed their javelins at the Judaeans scrambling away from them. One of the auxiliaries paused to bend down and pull at a silver chain round the neck of a man he had just killed and Cato grabbed his arm and wrenched him up, thrusting him on towards the centre of the camp.

  ‘Don’t stop for anything! Keep going forward. Kill and move on!’

  Away to his side, Cato heard the thrumming of hooves as Scrofa and his cavalry rode along the side of the camp for a short distance, and then turned in and charged the men who were arming themselves to meet the Roman infantry. On the other flank Postumus with the other two squadrons would be doing the same and Cato finally let go of the anxiety that had been coiled up in his breast.The plan had succeeded, the enemy had been taken by surprise. Now they must exploit the surprise as brutally as possible. He ran on, thrusting his javelin at any enemy still moving on the ground, or crossing his path as he angled towards the centre of the Roman line cutting its way across the enemy camp.True to Macro’s orders the cornicens and bucinators continued to blow their instruments for all they were worth and the air was filled with the harsh blare of the signal to charge. The men too were adding to the din, shouting their war cries as they slaughtered the enemy without mercy.Already Cato was stepping over scores of bodies, dead and the injured, writhing and crying out, all illuminated by the glow of the campfires.

  The Romans swept forward, a wave of death rushing across the camp, leaving bloodshed in their wake. Away to the east the faint light that Cato had discerned earlier was now a distinct pallid glow along the horizon and he felt an instant of panic grip his heart. As soon as the enemy realised how few men were attacking them they would surely turn on the Romans.Yet still the Judaeans and their Parthian allies fled before the enemy streaming across their camp. Cato caught up with Macro as the Roman line approached the cluster of tents at the heart of the site. The prefect was exultant and beamed with pleasure as he caught sight of Cato.

  ‘We’ve beaten them! The bastards are buggering off in all directions.’

  For a moment Cato shared in his friend’s triumphant mood, and then he noticed that he could see almost across the entire extent of the camp. His heart sank as he faced Macro.

  ‘It’s getting light.’

  ‘All the better to see them run!’

  ‘It cuts both ways, sir. They’ll soon see that they outnumber us. We’d better begin to withdraw.’

  ‘Withdraw?’ Macro shook his head, and gestured to the men who had run past them, still cutting their paths across the enemy camp, killing all in their way. ‘We’ve beaten them, I tell you. We have to push on while their spirit’s broken.’

  ‘Of course, sir. As long as we’re ready to give the order to retreat when the time comes.’

  Macro nodded and turned to run on with his men, beckoning to Cato to follow him. By the time they had reached the far side of the camp, dawn was spreading across the sky, and even though the sun had not breached the horizon there was plenty of light to illuminate the land stretching out around the fort.The camp was littered with bodies, and Romans were hunting down those who had hidden at first but were now making a break for it, sprinting for the gaps in the Roman lines. Spread out across the desert were thousands of men and horses, some of which had been mounted by Bannus’ Parthian allies. Already the enemy was slowing down, regrouping and starting to fight back against the scattered Romans. The cavalry squadrons of Scrofa and Postumus were also dispersed; many had ridden far too deeply amongst the enemy and were now in danger of being cut off.

  Macro and Cato drew up at the edge of the camp, breathless as they surveyed the scene with growing anxiety.

  ‘We’ve done all we can do, sir,’ Cato panted. ‘We’ve won our victory. Let’s not lose it now. Give the order for the recall.’

  Macro hesitated, torn between the desire to press the attack home, to keep killing the enemy and break their will, and the knowledge that his men were in danger now.

  ‘All right then,’ he conceded at last, and turned back towards the command party of standard bearers and trumpeters who had been following their prefect across the fort. He drew a breath and called out, ‘Sound the recall!’

  Moments later the signal blasted out and the auxiliaries began to draw up, abandoning their pursuit of the enemy.A few hotheads carried on heedlessly, but even they began to respond as the enemy stopped fleeing as soon as they saw the Romans begin to withdraw and form up by their standards. Already Cato noticed that their leaders were hurriedly rallying their men, and over by a group of horsemen the Parthians were banding together and would soon have a large enough force to take on their attackers. Cato could imagine the carnage they would wreak if they got the chance to bombard the Romans with arrows before they reached the safety of the walls of Fort Bushir.

  ‘Come on!’ Macro bellowed, waving angrily to the men straggling back from the pursuit. ‘Hurry up!’

  The tide of battle was changing before their eyes. Already the Judaeans were starting to turn on the Romans, chasing after those who had let their battle rage carry them too far. As Cato watched, a group of Judaeans caught up with one of the auxiliaries and knocked him to the ground. The man rolled on to his back and tried to cover himself with his shield, then Cato lost sight of him as the enemy crowded round and hacked at the victim at their feet, their sword blades rising and falling in a frenzy.

  Cato turned to Macro. ‘If we don’t make a move for the fort now, we’ll never reach it.’

  Macro glanced round. It was over half a mile to the breach where the gatehouse had once stood. The enemy would run them down long before they got there if they delayed any longer. Macro faced his men. ‘Second Illyrian! Back to the fort, double time! Scrofa! Postumus! On me!’

  As the centurions and optios of the infantry relayed the orders and turned their men back towards Bushir, the two cavalry commanders trotted over to Macro.They had lost only a handful of men in the pursuit of the enemy and most had already returned to their standards, although several were still trying to fight their way back through the rallying Judaeans.

  Macro addressed them hurriedly, one eye on the enemy streaming back towards the camp. ‘I want the cavalry to screen our retreat. Pull your men back to the edge of the camp facing the fort. Form them in line and charge anyone that looks threatening, Once we make the breach you can fall back and the archers will cover you from the wall.’

  Postumus exchanged a quick glance with Scrofa before he replied. ‘That’s madness.You’ll get us killed.’

  ‘That can happen to soldiers,’ Macro said coldly. ‘This isn’t a bloody debating society, gentlemen.Those are your orders and you will carry them out. Go!’

  Scrofa wheeled his mount round and spurred it back towards his command. Postumus glared at Macro for a moment and then followed his former commander.

  ‘Come on.’ Macro patted Cato’s arm and started trotting after the column of infantry hastening back to the fort. Around them ran the last of the stragglers.There was a pounding of hooves and the cavalry galloped by in a cloud of dust to take up their allotted positions. Once past the camp they turned outwards and formed a line, Scrofa’s men to the left of the breach, Postumus’ to the right, leaving a gap for the infantry to pass through. Cato and Macro caught up with the rear century and joined the ranks. Glancing back over his shoulder Cato was shocked to see some Judaeans sprinting after him, no more than fifty paces behind. A handful of them stopped abruptly and began to whirl slings overhead.<
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  ‘Look out!’ Cato shouted. ‘Slingshot!’

  He turned and presented his shield, just in time to save himself from a stone that cracked off the top edge of his shield and rattled over the top of his helmet. One of the other men was not so lucky and was struck in the back at the base of his spine. His legs went dead and he flopped forward with a cry of pain and surprise. One of his comrades stopped and hurried back to his side.

  ‘Leave him!’ Macro ordered, thrusting him back towards the column. Cato turned back and ran to catch up, tensing his shoulders and ducking his head slightly as if that might make him significantly less of a target. More shot whipped by and this time fate spared the Romans any further casualties. They were closing up on the cavalry screen and Macro called out, ‘Cavalry! Charge them! Now!’

  Scrofa and Postumus waved their swords to the front and the grim-faced cavalrymen edged their mounts forward. They trotted past Macro and Cato and the Judaeans who were pursuing them slithered to a halt as they realised their danger, and began to fall back. However, beyond them Cato could see a line of horsemen trotting towards the Roman cavalry. The Parthians came on, bows held ready and sword scabbards slapping the flanks of their mounts.The men caught between the two lines of horsemen ran from the narrowing gap, desperate to escape the clash. Macro and Cato continued towards the fort, casting glances back over their shoulders. Suddenly Macro stopped and turned.

  ‘What the hell is he doing?’

  Cato fell back and joined him in time to see Postumus’ squadrons veer to the right, cutting diagonally across the enemy front. Postumus swept his arm forward and shouted an order that Macro and Cato could not quite catch the sense of. His cavalry increased their speed and galloped away from the camp, towards the north. As they did so Scrofa reined in and his men halted, perhaps a hundred paces from the enemy. He turned to watch as Postumus and his men rode off.

  ‘The bastard’s running out on us!’ Macro said in astonishment.

  ‘The fool,’ Cato muttered. ‘Where does he think he can escape to?’

  ‘Who cares?’ Macro turned back to the men pursuing them. Scrofa and his men were all that now stood between the infantry heading for the fort and the enemy horde, desperate to chase after them and wipe them out. ‘Only Scrofa can save us now.’

  07 The Eagle In the Sand

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Scrofa stared at the oncoming Parthians, then glanced back at Macro, as if looking for guidance. Macro swore softly and muttered, ‘You have your orders, man. Bloody well carry them out.’

  ‘He’s going to run for it too,’ Cato decided, grabbing his friend’s arm. ‘We have to go. Now!’

  ‘Wait!’ Macro raised his arm and thrust it out towards the enemy. Scrofa was still for a moment, then he nodded. With a formal, final salute to Macro he swept his sword towards the Parthians and shouted the order to charge. His men spurred their horses on, and holding their shields close and clutching their spears tightly they raced towards the Parthians. Macro shook his head in wonder, before Cato pulled his arm insistently. The two officers turned away and ran down the track to catch up with the rest of the column hurrying back to the safety of the fort. Behind them there was a pounding of hooves for an instant and then the clash and ring of sword blades, the thud of blows landing on shields, shrill whinnies from terrified horses and the savage war cries of fighting men, and the screams of the wounded.

  Ahead of them the first of the infantry centuries had reached the breach and was scrambling up the bloodstained rubble. Parmenion leaned over the wall to the side, desperately waving the men on. As more of the infantry arrived, the units struggling up the rubble merged into a single mob of frantic men, while their comrades jostled forward at the base of the mound, anxiously looking over their shoulders.When Macro and Cato reached them they looked back and saw that Scrofa and his men were locked in a terribly unequal fight with the Parthians and would surely be cut to pieces as the price they paid for saving their comrades. Cato glanced away to the north and saw that Postumus and his friends were already little more than dark blots amid a haze of kicked-up dust. Already, a large number of Parthians were racing after them, determined not to let them escape, and Cato found himself hoping that Postumus was saved for as horrible a death as the Parthians could conceive.

  He turned back and saw that the auxiliaries were still struggling to climb up the rubble slope. ‘If this carries on much longer none of the cavalry will survive.’

  ‘Come on you men!’ Macro bellowed in frustration. ‘Move yourselves!’

  ‘Prefect!’

  Macro turned towards the voice and saw Centurion Parmenion waving at him from the wall, an excited expression on his face.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There, sir! Look over there!’ Parmenion thrust his arm out and stabbed his finger to the south.

  Macro thrust his way through the men and clambered a short distance up the slope so that he could see. An instant later Cato was at his side and both officers scanned the desert in the direction Parmenion had indicated. At first the swirling dust stirred up by Bannus’ army made it hard to discern what was causing Parmenion to be so animated. Then a fluke of breeze shifted the dust and Cato saw beyond the enemy. There was another body of men, hundreds of them, mounted on horses and camels, riding out of the desert directly towards the Judaeans. Now Macro could see them and he punched his fist into the air. ‘It’s Symeon! Symeon!’

  The men around him paused and turned to look and then took up Macro’s cry. Cato, true to his cautious nature, looked hard at the approaching riders and did not join in the cheering.There was no possible way of telling who they were at this distance. But now the enemy had seen the men riding down on them and at once they turned away from the fort.The blind pursuit of the hated Romans dissolved in an instant and they were fleeing for their lives once again. There was light enough to see clearly, and their leaders began to rally some of their men, forming them up to face the oncoming threat. But most just ran, across the camp, instinctively heading in the direction of the villages they had left to join Bannus in his struggle against the Romans. Only when he saw them break and run did Cato allow himself to believe that it was Symeon, or at least allies of some kind. The men around him were cheering wildly and now the auxiliaries began to flow in the other direction, out of the fort and back towards the enemy camp. Macro and Cato slithered down the rubble after them.

  Ahead, the survivors of Scrofa’s cavalry slumped wearily in their saddles and stared in confusion as the Parthians suddenly turned and fled from the scene, galloping away as fast as their mounts would carry them, heedless of their former allies as they rode through and over them. When Macro reached the scene he looked round.

  ‘Where’s Scrofa?’ He turned. ‘Scrofa!’

  ‘There, sir.’ Cato pointed. A short distance away, beneath a riderless horse, lay a crumpled body in a rich red cape, the helmet bearing the crescent of an officer. Near him lay the bodies of two Parthians. Macro and Cato hurried over and knelt down beside Scrofa, shifting him gently on to his back. Scrofa’s eyes flickered open. He stared round with a dazed expression when he saw the two officers looming over him.

  ‘Macro . . .’ he said quietly. ‘I’d hoped they’d got you too.’

  Macro smiled. ‘No such luck.’

  Cato caught his eye and nodded towards Scrofa’s side. The broken stump of an arrow shaft protruded from the former prefect’s chest, just below his heart. Frothy blood oozed out of the wound. Macro turned his gaze back to Scrofa’s face. ‘That was quite a charge you led there.You saved us.’

  ‘So it seems.’ He smiled weakly and then his face screwed up in agony for a moment, before the pain receded. ‘Who would have thought I’d ever save your lives? There’s no justice.’

  ‘Enough of the hard man act, Scrofa. It doesn’t suit you.’

  Scrofa’s lips flickered into a smile. ‘But I was a good soldier in the end, wasn’t I?’

  ‘You were. I’ll make sure that everyone kn
ows it.’

  ‘You do that . . . One other thing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Postumus . . .’ Scrofa raised his head with a struggle and suddenly gripped Macro’s hand tightly. ‘Swear to me you’ll make that bastard pay. For running out on us. For his treachery . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about Postumus. Last I saw of him he was being run down by scores of Parthians. He’ll not get away. And if he does, and we take him alive, I’ll make sure he knows what you thought of him before you-’ Macro broke off in embarrassment. ‘Well, you can tell him yourself. Once you’ve recovered.’

  Scrofa slumped back and whispered, ‘No such luck . . .’

  ‘Wait!’ Cato leaned over him. ‘Scrofa! You said treachery. What treachery?’

  Scrofa’s eyes fluttered and he spasmed, his body arching as the muscles tensed. Then abruptly he relaxed and sank back on to the sand, head lolling to one side. Cato snatched his wrist and felt for a pulse, but there was nothing and he let the arm drop down to Scrofa’s side. ‘He’s gone.’

  Macro stared at him for a moment and shook his head. ‘You know, I never thought he had it in him to go out like a hero. It took guts to do what he did. I was wrong about him.’

  ‘No, you were right about him, up until the end.’ Cato rose to his feet. ‘This was his redemption. He knew that. I saw it when he saluted you. He was lucky to get his chance to do some good before he died.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Macro stood up. ‘You have a funny idea of luck, Cato.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Cato looked round. The auxiliaries were spread out across the camp, chasing after the Judaeans. This time it was no ploy to gain time. The enemy was routed and the Romans’ wild triumph and bloodlust was unrestrained. Ahead of them rode the new arrivals, mercilessly running down the Judaean rebels and those Parthian allies who had been unhorsed.

  Macro noticed a small group of horsemen riding across towards them. At their head was Symeon, and as they approached and reined in Macro recognized Murad amongst his companions and they exchanged a smile. Symeon slid down from his mount and grasped Macro’s arms and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.